Ghost Queen in the House of Love

23. Hedone

Already, the bleariness from the wine has passed as I step warily down the long, eerily quiet hall. Instead, a resolve, not quite iron, hardens in my belly. I listen for Melinoë, knowing how difficult she is to hear. But there's the low rustle of when her cloak trails the floor. The slow padding of Penelope following her. Soft images, things like home that I now use to sneak past old, rickety wood into the other side of the manor, which is plunged into darkness.

Stopping, I suck in a breath that burns the bottom of my ribs. When I pass the main hall, I see no one. The windows are frosted with light rain, no fireflies or jeweled cicada wings in sight. As I step into the west wing, the blue shadows take on wicked tones and skitter close to my bare feet.

I must tread carefully, so the floor doesn't groan. In this bleary moment, I'm too aware of how this is a place outside of time. Not constructed like the palaces or florid manses of Olympus or the wealthiest of mortal cities, where the Olympians reign and keep a king and queen as puppets. And perhaps not even like the stories of the beautiful but deathly onyx spires in the Underworld, which nevertheless have rubied halls of marble and ivory amid the amaranthine windows and basalt towers. After all, death brings everything and everyone together; even if the dead look like a mass of blue, they are all different. They are all people.

Everything happens both sluggishly and far too swiftly. My feet go into the room, that room with the wardrobe I climbed into The back panel I freed is still on the floor. A light emanates through the opening. Surely, they must've noticed the wood was loosed and left on the floor in my clumsy rush.

As I did before, I get on both hands and hoist myself into the wardrobe, crawling through with as much silence as I can muster. I crawl through, a pang of doubt in my throat, and make it to the other side.

Immediately, I'm introduced to a quiet scene that doesn't belong to me: The two men, wearing two plain linen chitons, are in bed, one curled on his side, his dozing profile to me, and the other reading.

As expected, as I straighten, I'm immediately caught. One of the men stares at me, the one who isn't Adonis.

"Ah," the black-haired man says as he sets his gold-lined codex down on a pillow, "so that's what that was." By him, Adonis stirs from what seems to be a nascent nap.

Standing there unblinkingly, I struggle to think of what to say in this crucial moment. Finally, I'm doing something, and I'm speechless in front of strangers. Since when has not knowing anyone stopped me from striking up a conversation?

"Hello," I say to them.

Sitting up, Adonis meets my stare and rolls one shoulder. His exquisite golden curls fall into his face. "Oh. Hello. I thought it was Melinoë."

Somehow, I expected more surprise.

"I told you this would happen. Hello? You're the guest, correct? Hedone?"

It seems Melinoë hasn't been keeping them in the dark. "Yes. I'm here to save you."

The men exchange a bemused look. This isn't going well. I quite expected us to be on our way by now. This is what I get for being idle.

"Save us from what?" the man with wavy black hair asks.

"Being trapped here," I say, as if it's obvious.

"We aren't trapped. We're inconspicuous. In hiding by our own choice."

I have so many questions, but I start with the most obvious. "You're Adonis?"

He frowns, forehead a faint knot of lines. "Yes. How do you know what?"

"Your reputation precedes you." I look at the other man. "May I ask your name?"